there was something in the air that night
by MsEstora
Summary: A collection of five vignettes, five relationships.


_Disclaimer:__ This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by George Lucas. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

A/N: Written for my friends over on Tumblr a little while back! A collection of five vignettes, five relationships. The title comes from ABBA's _Fernando _(though each vignette has its own subtitle). Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**there was something in the air that night**

**(1)**

**by your side**

Bail takes off his wedding ring when Obi-Wan comes to his private apartment on Coruscant.

They seldom see each other between the Senate sessions and the battles raging in the Mid and Outer Rims, so they steal these moments together and Bail makes sure there isn't that constant reminder of his infidelity hanging around when they do. It shouldn't bother Obi-Wan, he thinks, because he knew Obi-Wan first, Breha became his wife out of duty, but Obi-Wan possesses an infuriatingly large guilt complex – and when Bail takes off the ring he can close his eyes for a few hours and pretend that Breha isn't part of his life when Obi-Wan is here.

"You should come to Alderaan," Bail murmurs, relaxing into Obi-Wan's arms in the afterglow. "One of the retreats. It'll be quiet. Private."

Obi-Wan tenses behind him. "I don't think that's a very good idea, Bail," he replies.

Bail raises an eyebrow. "Why not?" he demands. "You're on leave at the moment – I can get my Junior Senator to cover for me for a few days."

Obi-Wan's eyes flick down to his left hand, glancing at the obvious dent where his wedding band usually is, then back up to meet Bail's eyes. "I cannot leave Coruscant – the Jedi could require my presence at any moment," he says, but Bail has to wonder if he was thinking about something else.

He huffs and drags a hand through his hair. "It's only a three-hour trip," he tries. "Look, if it's Breha you're worried about, she doesn't need to know –"

Obi-Wan doesn't flinch, but his lips do tighten. "I just don't think it's wise."

"Of course you don't," Bail mutters.

Obi-Wan must sense his frustration, because his hand comes up to brush against Bail's jawline. "Whether you like it or not, Bail, I am a Jedi and you are a Senator," he says, always so bloody reasonable, and he drops his eyes again to Bail's left hand. Bail knows what he's thinking this time – that it'll be an insult to Breha, that what they have together will never be possible in the long run… "Perhaps… perhaps after the War."

He wishes the words were more hopeful instead of that resigned, placating tone. "Perhaps," Bail agrees, lips numb, and neither of them want to admit that maybe there won't be an 'after the War'. Bail leans forward to press his mouth firmly against Obi-Wan's, and Obi-Wan lets him, and for the rest of the night they can pretend they're young again and there is no war, no marriage, no duty – just them.

* * *

**(2)**

**close your eyes**

"You look tired."

Anakin offers him a wry smirk in response. "Yeah, but I'm still better-looking than you."

Obi-Wan shakes his head and rolls his eyes, strolling up beside Anakin to look over their troops below them at the base of the hill. Their tent is up behind them and they should return soon; it's started to drizzle rain and soon it'll be a downpour, and Obi-Wan isn't sure the tent will have enough protection to keep out the water. "We should both get some rest."

Anakin shakes his head, still gazing out over his 501st. "You go. I'll stay watch until Rex takes over."

Obi-Wan sighs. "Anakin, you need to sleep."

"I can't."

His tone is terse. Obi-Wan tilts his head and frowns in concern. "Are the dreams back?"

"No. I just…" He bows his head. "It's nothing."

Which means it's something, and it's probably that he can't sleep. Obi-Wan looks closer now, taking in the strains on Anakin's face and the way his shoulders aren't as straight as they usually are; the fine lines under his eyes and the slight droop of his eyelids, forced open only by sheer determination. He looks ready to collapse, but passing out isn't the same as sleeping.

"How long as it been since you slept properly, Anakin?"

"Probably about as long as it's been since you last slept, Master."

Fair point. Obi-Wan glances back over his shoulder to their tent – he remembered to zip it up, good, the inside won't get wet – and tugs his cloak around him as the rain starts to come down a little stronger now, visibly dampening both of their clothes. He starts to shiver – sees Anakin shiver too – and reaches over to place his hand on Anakin's shoulder. I could help you, Obi-Wan thinks, but he doesn't say it and Anakin doesn't ask. They just stand there together, gazing out over their troops in silence, as the rain falls harder and harder.

* * *

**(3)**

**need you now**

Anakin doesn't like it when Padmé gets drunk. Well, he doesn't mind it when they're both drinking because it's fun, they like spending that time together and everything becomes really funny and easy to talk about when they've had a couple of glasses. Like that time last year when they'd gone out to the lower levels in the Orange District and bar-hopped, and staggered back here before dawn only to dance to a lame song on the HoloRadio until they'd both passed out in a heap on the floor.

But tonight Padmé's already gone through a bottle and a half and he knows he shouldn't mix his medication with the alcohol too much, so he's standing there in a half-lidded daze as Padmé slumps to the ground, giggling and lifting her skirts around her thighs.

"Ana – hic – kin," she laughs, reaching for him. "Mmm. I want… you. I want you."

He wants her, too. This is the first time he's seen her in five months and it's hard to just talk to a blue wavering image of her from thousands and thousands and thousands of miles away. But he doesn't want to take her like this, rolling on the ground and giggling and unable to focus on anything and unlikely to remember anything in the morning. He laughs softly and shakes his head, staggering down to lift her gently into his arms so he can carry her to their seldom-shared bed. "Maybe in the morning," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her mouth. Padmé clings to him so tightly that when he goes to ease her onto the bed, she tugs him down with her and pulls her over him.

"Anakiiiinnnn," she moans, and Anakin shakes his head and rolls to the side, pulling her into his arms to kiss her.

"Morning," he tells her again. "Please, Padmé."

The 'please' does it; she pulls back a little and blinks blearily at him, trying to comprehend, then nods and leans forward to kiss him again.

He clutches her close to him and kisses her back as though his life depends on it. He could be called away at any time, any hour – back to the war zone on the Outer Rim and away from her. He won't have sex with her while she's drunk – that's not how he wants to part ways with her if he's called off. Anakin bites down on his tears and holds his wife tightly under the covers, tasting the champagne on her mouth, and when she finally falls asleep in his arms he watches her face until the sun streams through the blinds and his commlink buzzes, calling him away.

* * *

**(4)**

**étreinte**

Breha is, for all intents and purposes, an impossibly nice person. She's delicate, sweet, very pretty, refined, and a little self-righteous, though she gets away with it so well that Padmé would feel honestly bad pointing it out as a flaw.

She's also sworn off alcohol, which makes this entire night really, really boring.

Okay, fine, not that boring – Breha is a good conversationalist, a decent politician in her own right, and has an impressive knowledge of literature and art. It's actually a lovely night. A very sober night. Not that Padmé is ungrateful for the company – it's been unpleasant staggering back to her apartment and crashing hard onto her bed without Anakin there beside her, and it's nice to just be with someone, just to talk to someone and not be forced to curl up in cold sheets and sob into her pillow – but she's itching for a drink, to feel warm and lightly pleasant to get rid of the clenching in her chest that makes it hard to breathe.

"Are you all right, Padmé?"

Padmé blinks and looks up, realising she's been spacing out. "Yes, fine!" she says quickly, bouncing her leg up and down. "Just… I'm a bit…"

She doesn't want to say anxious. She just needs to relax and enjoy herself properly, and that's really hard to do without a bottle of Ithorian Mist or fine champagne. She has a flask, though, hiding in her dress skirt pocket, and she's tempted to pardon herself to the 'fresher to quickly down the contents.

This is ridiculous. She's never felt ashamed of this before. Padmé clears her throat and lowers her head, wetting her lips. "You don't mind if I have a drink, do you?" she asks, trying not to wince.

Breha, to her credit, doesn't look disapproving or outraged, just a little sad. "No, not at all," she murmurs, and Padmé gratefully reaches for her flask and sips it, the warm liquid burning her throat and settling in her stomach. She doesn't down it like she wants to, though – she has to show Breha she can cope just fine without a drink despite the latest HoloNet gossip rags.

It loosens her up just fine, and Breha – while disapproving – falls into the conversation as well.

"Do you – hic – think tha' Naboo an' – an' Alder…Alderaan shud do a… a thing?" Padmé eventually says, tipping the flask up to her lips, only to find it's empty. Through the pleasant buzz of the drink, she can see Breha bite her lower lip, though whether it's in amusement or concern it's hard to tell.

"Depends on the 'thing'," she replies. Somehow Padmé's hands have ended up in Breha's, stroking them.

"You have pretty hands," Padmé giggles, curling up closer to Breha. "They're so… warm an' soft an'… the thing, I mean, ed-u-kay-shun. Education. College 'n stuff."

"Perhaps we can talk about it again when you're not inebriated," Breha says softly.

"Nononono m'fine, I –"

Padmé knows she's not really fine, though, because she can't remember what she was saying. She shakes her head and leans forward, pressing her head to Breha's shoulder and nuzzling her neck. Breha's hands come up to stroke her hair, sending warmth through Padmé's body to areas that even the alcohol couldn't reach. "S'nice," she mumbles, then pulls back and presses her mouth to Breha's.

Breha's lips are full and soft and warm and welcoming, and her mouth tastes like sweet fresh fruit, not like pills and steel and blood like Anakin's mouth sometimes tastes like and not like brandy and smoke like Bail's (oh, oh no, she'd done that, hadn't she, just the other week, oh no). And for a moment, Breha's hand rests on the small of Padmé's back, holding her close and gently, and it feels so nice before Breha pulls away with a sigh.

"I think it's time for you to rest, Padmé," Breha whispers. Padmé protests, but it's all a blur between being moved from the couch to being tucked in to Breha's bed. She tries to mumble something – thank you, maybe? Or sorry? – but Breha murmurs "Shhh," as she settles in beside her, her hands stroking Padmé's hair as she hums a song, lulling her to sleep.

* * *

**(5)**

**out of reach**

The fireplace is warm and Bail has long since taken his cape and metal chest plates off, unbuttoned the top half of his shirt, but he still manages to look tense and unrelaxed even as he reclines into the couch. Breha has kicked off her shoes and is curled up in the couch next to Bail's, clasping a cup of tea. Not much has been said between them; just platitudes. How was Coruscant? Good, thank you – how has it been here on Alderaan? It's been lovely.

He thinks she doesn't notice, of course, the way he fidgets in his chair and reaches into his pocket to grasp for something. From the corner of her eye she watches him struggle with himself, as if debating something, then he gets up from where he's sitting as though having made a decision and trails his fingers against the curve of her neck and shoulder. She hates herself for the way she sinks into his touch almost immediately – knowing full well he doesn't really mean it, knowing full well he probably does the same to Obi-Wan Kenobi but actually enjoys doing it – and catches her breath when his lips touch her skin.

"Just need to go to the 'fresher for a moment," Bail murmurs, his lips grazing her neck. He doesn't pull away yet, though – but his words bring her back to reality so she draws away first, shaking her head and tugging her shawl around her shoulders like a flimsy shield.

"No, Bail. Not tonight," she says. He looks confused – almost cut – and she sighs. "He gave you something, didn't he?"

She means her Healer, Tion Marcene, and she means the pills so that Bail can achieve an erection.

Breha doesn't begrudge Tion for doing that. She knows he's done it, of course – she's the Queen, after all, information gets back to her eventually. And she can't even bring herself to hate Bail, who clearly finds the idea of having sex with her such a ritual of duty and so off-putting that he would actually agree to take the pills, just to keep her happy for a night.

Bail looks devastated – utterly humiliated and pained that he's been caught out in this, that she knows he doesn't want her. "It's not your fault," he whispers helplessly, tears in his eyes.

"I know," Breha replies, not really feeling it. It isn't her fault, not really – it's just as simple as the fact that he doesn't love her, he isn't attracted to her, and he can only get hard for her if he takes pills for it. She'd rather not have this night at all than have him make love to her and not mean it, like last time when he'd moaned out Obi-Wan Kenobi's name instead and showered and left straight afterwards. But that doesn't mean it doesn't batter her bruised heart with every beat it takes – that doesn't mean she isn't always wondering, why aren't I good enough for you?

"I'm sorry."

"I know," she says again, reaching for his hand because the room will be too big and empty without him. "Tell me about Coruscant instead."


End file.
